They're preparing to laugh, as if seeing Sleeper for the first time. Or they're imagining fireworks over the Manhattan skyline against "Rhapsody in Blue." They're envisioning a sit-down over a corned-beef sandwich at Carnegie Deli.

The image I left with is different.

Some backstory: In the eighties, long before I'd started interviewing for Esquire or written my first book, my parents lived in an apartment close to Woody's mother. Sometimes they would see him when he was going to visit her. Once, when I was visiting, I passed Woody on the street. The mere sight of him made me smile. But I didn't say a word.

I would've loved to meet him then. I can't think of another human being who has brought me as much laughter and joy over the last half-century. But I knew he didn't want to be disturbed. We see him as an actor, a comedian, a director. But underneath it all, Woody is a writer.

I have a hunch that if he walks down a street alone, he's trying to figure out the right line on a page that only he can see. I'm guessing so, because that's the way I feel when I walk down a street, and people have no idea that they're shaking my thoughts when they stop to say hello. They think a writer does his writing at the keyboard.

So I'm glad I didn't disturb him that day. It would've made him uncomfortable, and me even more uncomfortable. I'm glad that I met him when I did — on a beautiful New York morning this June. I'd been invited to his office for an interview, and as soon as he welcomed me I felt at home. His office was in the process of being renovated, and somehow that made me feel even more relaxed, the way an apple with a slight bruise makes me more comfortable than one that's been polished to perfection.

As we talked, Woody described what it was like to look down from the Acropolis and see where the first Greek plays debuted, imagining Sophocles as David Mamet in a toga wondering why the actors couldn't get their lines right, or why the costumes weren't on time. That's what my ninety minutes with the man felt like — a glimpse behind the scenes of the show we all see.

Just before I left, Woody mentioned that he was going to see one of his favorite comedians, the great political satirist Mort Sahl, perform later in the week. Sahl is in his eighties, but I'd never seen him.

"You ought to come," Woody said.

There was no way I could make it. I had a family obligation 3,000 miles away. We parted ways, and for the next ten minutes, walking down the street, I beat myself up over my lousy timing.

Then I stopped to open a book of Woody's essays he'd signed for me, after I'd given him a book of my work and signed it to him. His inscription read, "Thank you for your book. I'm sure it's more interesting than mine."

Which, of course, is not the case.

But I smiled. There's an art to meeting someone in just the right place at just the right time. Sahl aside, my timing was right. I looked around the streets of New York City on a beautiful summer morning, and, maybe for the first time in my life, felt like an artist.